


A Jealous Cup

by Schonste (Churchwarden)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churchwarden/pseuds/Schonste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're watching each other, and it's clear Dr. Bashir is no good at spy-work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Jealous Cup

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts Jealousy & Coffee

His cup of Tarkalean tea remained untouched as he wrung his hands. He was trying not to be obvious in his staring, but he had felt those blue eyes land on him more than once already. Scowling, he stared down into his teacup and saw his face glaring moodily back up at him.

Across the promenade he could see Garak sitting with Ziyal over a long, casual evening meal. She was smitten with him. It was as clear as day. Bashir could feel the energy pouring off of him in steamy billows. He didn’t need to watch this. He’d watched enough. Yet he sat there, unable to move away, until he saw Garak’s hand land on hers. He got up in that moment, shoving his chair back to head straight to the infirmary.

There was too much irritation floating around his head for him to notice the pair of icy eyes that subtly watched him leave.

***

His cup of Raktajino stood untouched, his plate of various fried rodents barely poked at. Garak had been talking rather extensively about the holidays and festivals that were celebrated back on Cardassia, and his dinner partner for the evening, Ziyal, took every word he said at face value.

Not that she didn’t have any reason not to. Garak had a hard time lying to Ziyal – mainly because she rarely asked him questions he required untrue answers for. She asked him about Cardassia, which proved to be a favorite topic of the homesick exile, as well as on tailoring, which proved to be a favorite topic of the young girl. That was no surprise, of course. But Garak tired of being reminded that he couldn’t go home, and even moreso of the fact that he would be stuck to mend clothes far away from it.

His only real lies were his emotions, but that was nothing new for anyone he spoke to. Ziyal would think that he found her entertaining and engaging, charming and friendly; the way he smiled at her questions or joked at his own expense was disarmingly trustworthy. Still, though, when she finally talked, he felt his gaze turning, just for a moment, across the promenade.

He was very glad he had the stoic training of a former operative of the Obsidian Order, because otherwise his eyeridges would have met with his hairline. His eyes locked with Dr. Julian Bashir’s for only a moment, but the doctor casually looked away as though it were an accident. Garak could see how tightly Bashir was holding onto his teacup – he knew the man was thinking about something stressful. But why stare at him?

His attention focused back in on Ziyal, whose slender fingers were toying with her stylish, silky hair. She gave him what he could have almost considered a sly look before asking what he liked to use when he made his own fashions.

That was certainly a topic Garak could elaborate on without even thinking, and did so; words like “autumnal yellows” and “couture” and “Argosian chiffon” spilled out of him even as his mind focused in on the peculiar little display across the hall. He hadn’t eaten with Bashir in some time: the Terran had been consistently busy every time Garak had approached him for a lunch, and the one time he had forced him to sit down for a companionable meal, Bashir had inhaled it and was gone within fifteen minutes.

He was smiling as he told an anecdote about a fat Bajoran and a hemline, but he felt none of what showed on his face. What he really felt was mild irritation; the subtle, consistent self loathing that saturated his being; amused curiosity at Bashir’s intentions; and a dreary sense of boredom. He wanted to argue about literature, philosophy, and politics, not prattle on about a giant chiffon skirt.

He knew that, when his eyes caught Bashir’s for a second time, it was no coincidence the man was sitting across the way. There was even less of a coincidence that the staring had happened by accident. Bashir was sitting far enough away to be unseen by an untrained observer, but close enough to read body language. He was also sitting at one of the few tables that did not have large columns blocking the view, despite it not being his usual table at that café. The most telltale sign – aside from the blatant staring, of course – was the way his fingers were practically white from how hard he was squeezing that teacup.

If Garak didn’t know better, and at this time he was starting to believe he didn’t, he would have thought the doctor jealous. But it was a preposterous thought. Bashir had barely taken a passing interest in the half-Bajoran daughter of Dukat, and Ziyal would have mentioned a date with the doctor. So that left him to be jealous because of Ziyal. The idea didn’t seem possible. The girl was his Cardassian companion, one he sorely needed in his lonely existence, but nothing more.

Garak’s gaze settled on her. Her cheeks darkened a bit as he studied her. “You’re really that interested in fashion, are you?” he asked blandly, and allowed on of his hands to land on top of hers. She flushed from ear to ear, the slight contact throwing her off enough that Garak dared to look across the promenade once more. Bashir had already stood up, his chair tipped over on the ground. He was stalking away, the black cloud above him rivaling even Commander Worf’s famous gloom. He didn’t even hear Ziyal’s blustered, “Y-yes, and every…one that has to do with it.”

“Most interesting,” Garak simply murmured, withdrawing his hand. Ziyal barely restrained herself, and pushed her plate forward a few inches.

“I’ve actually been toying with the idea of designing,” Ziyal said, which snapped Garak back to the present. If Garak didn’t know better, he could have sworn she looked coy. All this thinking about Bashir was slowing down his mind. He reached for his now-cold coffee. “Maybe you’d like to come back to my quarters to …critique some of my attempts?”

He nearly choked. Garak was starting to believe he didn’t know better about a great many things. “Maybe some other time,” he said, and found himself feeling like he could use a check-up for the first time in his life. “I have an appointment I have to make.”

“At this hour?” Ziyal’s pleased expression dropped and he felt the strangest sense of guilt tickle at his chest. He attempted to ignore it, but her face was bogglingly open and expressive for a Cardassian – or at least, half of one. He scrambled mentally for a way to salvage this.

“Tomorrow,” Garak said, and then reached out, offering his palm to her. “Bring your experiments to the shop. I’ll close the shop if you wouldn’t like anyone else to critique your work.” He knew how it was going to be taken, but that had partially been intended. Once he sorted out this strange incident with the doctor, who was he to say no to a beautiful woman?

She pressed her hand to his and he saw color flare across her subtle neck ridges. “Tomorrow,” she said with a nod, “with just your critiques.”


End file.
